


Xena: Warrior Princess: Before Season One

by FlyingPigPoet



Category: Xena: Warrior Princess
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-09-07 06:17:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8786818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyingPigPoet/pseuds/FlyingPigPoet
Summary: This is me thinking about the things that had to happen before Season One took place, some from canon, some not.





	

Genesis 

 

Some nights ring with destiny. Consider:  
A Thracian soldier returns to his home  
Unexpectedly, woos his surprised wife  
With words of longing for her tender embrace  
And an end to war and his long absence.  
She welcomes him, pours him wine mixed  
With water, accepts his wooing, and wakes  
The next morning alone. All night the rain

Washed the shores of Thrace, the thunder rolled  
Up the coast and across the green hills  
To Amphipolis. Dogs barked, horses moved  
Uneasily in their stalls. Up on Olympus,

Clotho found a new thread in her hands:

This is how heroes are born, as when  
Odysseus’s thread began and Athena strode  
Forward to bless it, or when Adonis came  
Into the world and Aphrodite reached  
Out her pearl white hands. So, too, this night,  
This thread. Yet two immortals raced into  
The Fates’ sanctuary, vying to reach the loom  
First: Pallas Athena and Ares Wargiver.

Clotho alone knows which sword-hardened hand  
First touched the thread woven that stormy night.  
Not even Lachesis the Apportioner, nor, too,  
Atropos of the Shears, were turned to see.

On this mystery rests the fate of Olympus.

 

 

 

G., Reflecting

Years before my betrothal, I fell in love  
with a larger world than my village life  
could hold. Chosen by lot to bear the yearly  
tribute to Poseidon’s temple, my family sailed  
across the lapis Aegean, my sister ill for all  
the thirty leagues. My mother tended her.  
I stood with my father at the prow, in awe  
at the passing coastline, the green and rocky  
cliffs of Euboea, stern like my father, and  
unknowable like the future. When our voyage  
ended in Sunion and we climbed the long green  
hill to its marble crown where we would make  
our sacrifice, I paused, marveling at the sea

so blue and calm here, so grey and terrible  
in the past, when Poseidon raised his trident  
to save my people, the villagers of Potidaea,  
from the wrath of the Persian army with a wall  
of water so high that all, men, horses, chariots,  
were washed away and not even their bloated  
bodies returned to haunt our nights. There,

on Poseidon’s hill in Attica, wild fennel grew,  
feathery, yellow, savory. Even as I inhaled,  
I knew I would one day return there, and go  
even farther afield. I would see not just marathos,  
this fennel, but Marathon and Athens, Sparta,  
Corinth, Illyria. The day would come, and I  
would be ready. Even as I inhaled, I swore  
by the gods I would study maps and speak  
with learned men, teach myself how to read  
the stars as sailors do, to find their way.  
Destiny speaks to us not only in the battle  
cry a soldier shouts before the clash of swords  
but also in a flower’s message to a little girl.

 

 

 

The Delphic Oracle Speaks to the Old Bard

The Bard: 

Apollo, you see all that passes by day,  
Beneath your golden chariot as it measures  
The broad sky. Long have I served you,  
Offering the sacrifice of blood and that of song.  
Kings and conquering heroes have eaten their meat  
To the sound of my paeans, offering honor to them,  
Recalling their many glories. Now I grow old  
And weary. My voice tires. My swollen fingers  
Fumble on the lyre. Before my eyes  
Cloud like Homer’s, I must make one last  
Journey. Tell me, Oracle: what is the word  
Of Apollo Light Bringer?

The Oracle:

Silver Throat, storms are coming that will shake  
Olympus for good and ill. Your allotted part  
Is not the champion’s portion, the shoulder  
Of the bull. Go to Poseidon’s beloved in  
Far Chalcidice and find there your toil:  
To tame a sweet-voiced swallow to your hand.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Old Bard Acquiesces

Little One, Apollo has smiled on you.  
I sense his thumbprint on your forehead;  
The vibrations of his lyre resonate  
In your high voice: a terrible gift  
For a god to give a mere girl. For the Muses,  
As women, are jealous of the artifice  
Of other women; they prefer the might  
Of men. Poets, heroes, kings: the great roles  
Always fall to the sword-hand, not the distaff.  
Thus Zeus commands.  
Yet Apollo has,  
I deem, granted an exception in your  
Fate, mellifluously persuading the maiden,  
Clotho, as she spun your thread. The female  
Has no place at the banquet, and surely  
Not singing the glory of battle-friends  
And the fall of cities. Can an olive seed  
Grow to the height and might of an oak,  
Reaching for the glory sent down by Zeus  
From Olympus? Has any woman ever been  
Allotted such a portion?  
Yet Apollo chose  
You for this painful honor. Every turn  
Of your hand and flash of your blue eyes tells me.  
When I have sung for the men at evening  
Feasts, while you and the other women  
Took your food in the room behind, still  
At dawn I hear you singing of Odysseus,  
Most tragic of men, as you feed the goats  
And chickens. You sing in correct fashion  
Of the fate of the Wanderer and the things  
He suffered and struggled for.  
Apollo prevails.  
I amaze myself. I give into your pleading:  
I will teach you the epics, paeans,  
And laments as they must be performed  
To please the gods and men. You will master  
Rhythm and diction, make sacrifices to  
Appease the Nine and earn their inspiration.  
Little One, you have the heart of a wolf  
Huntress, the voice of a nightingale, so I  
Swear to you. Hard-eyed  
Apollo smiles.

The Fall of Cirra

As children we come to experiences bone to bone,  
With no kind skin to muffle the uproar. Imagine  
The world of kings and ancient gods, warring among  
Themselves, placing the world of simple men and  
Women in peril. Fire and the sword are the rule  
Of the day. The villagers do what they can,  
Fight with crude weapons and no armor, hide  
The women, children, stored grain, cattle, all.

But the gods mock such attempts at agency,  
Assert their puissance with grand shows  
Of thunder in heaven and on earth, of lightning  
Above and below. The blood of men sinks into  
The earth. They say if you plow a battlefield  
You will cut and sink a well, a fountain of the stuff.  
That is only just barely a lie. Take Cirra,

An ordinary village really, not far from Delphi,  
Peopled with the usual: villagers, farmers, a few  
Flocks, perhaps a potter, maybe a crude smith.  
Just enough to keep it fed in peacetime, just  
Enough to attract the attention of a raging warlord  
And his or her hungry army. If you and your  
People resist their ravening, their attention  
Will turn to destruction; if you persist, well then,

Your destruction will turn to annihilation.  
Plunder takes a second place to prostration,  
Loot to the lesson learned, not here, where no one  
Is left, but abroad as the tale, if possible, grows.  
The warmongers reputation grows with it,  
Like the way a fire, caught by a sudden wind  
Changes a village to a vision of the underworld.

Did I say vision? Foolish me. Vision suggests  
You are only using your eyes. But as you look  
Around you, everywhere you look around you,  
You are hearing it, all of it, the raging fire itself  
As it devours your home and the homes of your  
Friends, the barns and silos, shops and tavern:  
Every wooden thing you have ever loved now  
Engulfed in a golden orange tidal wave of death. 

(Stanza Break)  
But maybe once, unbeknownst to the ones who made  
Her orphan, one single villager escapes: a girl child  
With hair like hot fire, the only outward sign that  
The blazes entered her ears with a sound like screaming,  
In voices very like her family’s, and then sank down  
Through what used to be her heart, burning it down  
To a cold, lifeless, useless lump of coal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Romae Victima

 

There is a sound that bones make when they’re broken,  
A harsh squeaking, cracking sort of noise, like the sound  
Of shattered promises, false oaths, a gloating voice  
Pronouncing “Destiny!” as if it were a prop for a regime  
Rather than a simple conceit of cause and effect.  
It is a bleak sort of sound, like the creaking of any empty  
Pirate ship, the token of a failed felony: naked ambition  
Meeting a stronger force. The leg bones are the longest,  
Strongest. It takes considerable strength to break them.  
You have to really want to make a person suffer, or 

At least obey your centurion in his scarlet cloak.  
After all, the enemies of Rome deserve what they get.  
If they have shaken the ship of state, they need to pay.  
Tie the arms, take up the mallet, smash the legs  
With a single stroke, the hammer of doom for one  
Already struggling to breathe. Sweat trickles down  
From your helmet as blood trickles down this pirate’s  
Feet, so frail seeming in the dying light and fading heat.  
Move on down the beech. There are still more to crucify  
Before the sun sets. One Greek pirate more or less

Will not make much difference to the world or even  
The Roman fleet. And if one of the pirates who escaped  
Returns to pull them down, even if they survive,  
They will never walk again. Broken bones don’t straighten.  
Only the long ache will greet them every morning  
When they wake from dreams of blood and sand,  
And drag themselves with begging bowl into the street  
To navigate the reeking masses, cursing the meager  
Generosity of strangers, cursing you with your cross  
And mallet, cursing the yoke of their own paltry fate.

 

 

 

Life with the Mongol Hordes

 

Long the circling battle, our  
Horses circling theirs, their soldiers  
Crying out in terror like squealing

Little girls, as our curved swords  
Robbed them of limb and life.  
And after, the dead still served:

Their severed heads mounted on their  
Halberds and spears lined the long,  
Winding dirt road into the capitol, 

A form of persuasion you could say  
I learned from Caesar. If you  
Followed the line of decaying heads

Staring at passing travelers, you could  
Trace my army’s route like a map  
Of looting and pillaging, making deals

Betraying allies, being myself betrayed.  
Looking back I see I was a wounded  
Animal living moment to moment with no

Hope but this: a kingdom drawn in blood  
Upon a map that spread from my scarred  
Skin to the far ocean where the red sun rises.

 

 

 

 

 

Lao Ma Prefaces Her Lessons with a Tale 

 

You are so full of anger and hate. You tell me,  
Everyone has to be full of something. Yes. Let me  
Tell you the story of the lost caverns of Kun Lun  
Mountain. Li Po, the poet, and Guan Gong, the hero,  
Were travelling together to find the Shaolin monks  
To aid them in their battle against an army of ogres  
Set loose on the people by the king of demons.

But the poet and the warrior became lost upon  
Their way, fooled by the mountain mists, and  
Found themselves during the season of hard rains  
In need of shelter, food, water, and the hope of  
All travelers, direction. They came upon nine  
Caverns and in each cavern a dragon. The first,  
A white dragon, was very small, and he could

Not help them, for he was consumed with hatred  
And had chewed off his own legs. In the second  
Cavern, a purple dragon, mascot of emperors, but  
He could not help for he set fire to his own tail  
In his anger. The blue dragon, envy, the green  
Dragon, resentment: each was slightly bigger  
But none could help the pair in their need.

Thirsting, exhausted, the pair came upon the next  
Cavern, larger than all before, and a yellow dragon,  
Friendship met them there. He gave them a feast  
And water and wine, but was timid and would not  
Leave the cavern to help them find their way, so  
They moved on. The next, larger dragon, Courage,  
Was orange and she sharpened their weapons

Replaced their armor and sent them off with a map  
Of the land of Chin. They gathered an army of monks  
And defeated the ogres speedily, gaining gratitude  
And adulation from the people. Taking the gold  
And grain they were given, they returned to Kun Lun  
To show their gratitude to the orange dragon, but  
They could not find her. In the next cavern, however,

 

(Stanza Break)

They found an immense red dragon, Love, who  
In her little sisters name, accepted their offerings and  
Invited them to stay. Li Po, in need of strong drink,  
Declined, but Guan Gong realized that he could  
Learn from her, so he stayed many years. She  
Taught him how to turn his skin to iron so that  
He need not be weighed down by armor. Then

He asked, Are there not nine caverns? Where is  
The ninth? And is the dragon of that cavern even  
Stronger and wiser than you? I must learn from  
Her! And suddenly, he was alone in an endless  
Cavern filled with the sound of his own beating  
Heart. Desire, ambition, will, these were the beats he  
Heard. When he let them go, the dragon appeared.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lao Ma Teaches X. Iron Shirt Qi Gong

Qi is energy, gong, perfection based upon long practice:  
The cultivation of the body's energy to reinforce  
Its structural strength. You are remarkably strong  
Even for a woman of your size. I am stronger.  
You are eager to learn. (your eyes flash blue fire)  
It is fire qi gong I am teaching you, how to bend  
The fire in the body to your will, circulate it  
As your blood circulates first upstream and then  
Downstream. Circles are the way of the universe  
And the ten thousand things. If you complete  
The orbit inside the body, master the complete  
Stillness of the mind, of all desires, then you will  
Have true power, power not only to protect  
Your body from blows but power to heal, power  
To send from your body like a raging wind.

(I have seen your rage, it carries you along  
with no control) To control your fire, you must  
Still the will, make of the mind a placid lake, free  
Of ripples, of the tiniest breezes, a lake like stone  
Your mind must become, hard and soft, deep  
As the sea is deep but free of waves. Stand here,  
Baby Dragon Prays to the Heavenly Emperor.  
You are a bell, hollow, enormously heavy, cast  
From iron and gold admixed. When you are struck  
The vibrations will make you even heavier, harder,  
Impervious. Feel the vibrations tear at your limbs.  
They want to get out to fight for you. Do not let them.  
Contain it like a pot over a fire, the lid tightly on.  
Never fear, dear one. You will not explode. 

I will take this slight bamboo rod and tap your body  
To let the energy up and out. As you progress,  
We will move on to the stick and the staff, all soft,  
Flexible bamboo. You will learn not to fear blows  
That cannot harm you: a fly lands on your skin,  
You ignore it. A fist is not much bigger than a fly  
In the greater scheme of things. This part of my  
Training you take to fluently, but it is the language  
Of your mind that will not stop talking (your voice  
beautiful, even when raging) telling you to take this  
World for your dominion, when you need to stop not  
Only the desires, but all the language that shapes them.

 

X., Meditating...

 

It's not the constant quaking inside my body that I mind,  
It's this ridiculous stillness  
She insists on, the way I have to force myself to contain  
The quaking, the thoughts.  
So many battles I have fought, so many armies conquered  
And now I am standing  
With my hands up to the heavens. Her servants pass by,  
Heads down, politely  
Ignoring me as I grown like a ship's rigging and sails  
Swelling from too much  
Wind, too tumultuous a storm, too long and hard a voyage.

I suppose I look  
Like some kind of supplicant begging the gods for  
Earthly power.  
I always wanted ore than that, and even when  
Ares was my lover,  
He never offered me anything else, although for a while  
He gave me  
Himself, the embodied lightning that is the thirst for  
Battle and its quenching  
That left my legs quivering and my breathing weak.

For a while, that was enough. But now I see how  
Paltry it was.  
Now when my legs creak in the wind, I can feel my  
Energy licking the lines  
Where Caesar broke my legs, my spirit, tore in half  
My soul. She has undone  
That old damage. My sails fill with a wind of my own  
Making. I am  
Licked with flame. I am the wind that takes flame and  
Sings it into a choral  
Conflagration, the way in a play, the chorus foresees  
The coming tragedy  
And tries, from the side of the stage, to warn the players.

 

 

Lao Ma Doubts Her Decision

how beautiful she is, my warrior,  
she burns, even  
in the pouring rain  
her hair, a black river dragon  
swimming through, singing  
of power, power

I tell myself she is  
perfect, not hard  
to believe, I tell myself  
over and over, that she is ready  
that no one so  
quick to learn

could just as quickly  
unlearn, like a rope  
twisted too far in  
one direction, swinging  
out and unraveling again  
at speed

perhaps we believe too much  
in those we love,  
faith based on hope  
and a teacher's pride,  
we want to believe  
in change,

redemption, healing  
these would be things worthy  
of desiring  
if I did not know  
how desire can burn  
out of control

 

 

 

Borias Contemplates the Enigma

 

Once, long ago in my village  
I knew a boy, a little wild  
Around the eyes, who claimed  
He knew eighteen ways to start  
A fire. One day, he started  
Four, one at every corner of the  
Temple of Poseidon. The priests  
Never had a chance. The boy,  
He did not run, stood watching,  
His eyes shining with the flames,  
Mouth open, carried by the roar,  
Ecstatic. They burned him alive.

I have thought of him often  
Since taking you, first as my mistress,  
Then as my lover, partner, general  
Of my army. Your lust is, if possible,  
Greater even than my own, lust  
For the body, lust for war.  
Sometimes I think you would  
Burn down the world just to see  
The flames, hear them speak  
Their secrets to you. And I,  
Watching you, over and over, still  
Think I will not be burned.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Battle of Corinth

 

Looking back, Corinth was the beginning  
Of the empire I envisioned: destroy Corinth  
And I'd destroy every nation around  
The Mediterranean Sea: Phoenicia, Thrace,  
Athens, Sparta, Thessaly, even Rome.  
Set them up, besiege them, knock them down  
With a glorious tide of men, with shining steel  
As its froth and blood as its wake.

It was easy at first and I grew used to winning,  
Every single battle a rout, until Corinth.  
Men flocked to my banner, renowned  
Warriors, without the slightest trace  
Of cowardice. In Athens, epic poems  
Were written of my bloody deeds. Songs sounded  
My name: paeans, warnings for children. My meals  
I took on golden plates from the loot take.

Yes, Corinth was the beginning of everything:  
Once beautiful, now ravaged Corinth.  
A classic battle, my catapults pounding  
The walls, my fireballs leaving soot like black lace  
Around the perimeter. Screams came from homes  
With a familiar, torturous sound:  
Widows ululated their grief, as I, my zeal.  
I counted that victory once, that heartache.

The more fool me. The beginning of the end  
Was my battle with that beleaguered city.  
The men and women of Corinth I could have killed,  
Their city burning, their towers undermined,  
Poisoned grain on their broken plates,  
The front gates all but fallen, entered.  
Then they came, the labor pains,  
My soldiers not knowing I had a child to bear.

I screamed. Corinth screamed. My slave girl lent  
Two strong hands, a strong drug, but no pity,  
Never pity. Her hands were skilled,  
My son born whole, bloody, and perfect to my mind.

 

(Line Break)

I did not know then that Corinth's gates  
Had been reinforced by the very Centaurs  
We had pitted against the Corinthians for our gain.  
My own partner turned against me in despair.

That was it, the start of my descent,  
My sea change, the chaotic, gritty  
Tipping point. All the later changes spilled  
Over from that one I think you'll find:  
Father, mother, son, army, all our fates  
Split apart like an axe to the loom of the mentors.  
Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos: my hopes, my banes.  
Corinth, O Corinth. We've all been there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On Healing

 

Betrayal turns the heart to chalk,  
Twists the soul, leaves one stunted.  
Especially in a world where strength  
Is goodness, weakness despised,  
And love a misunderstanding, the goal  
After being betrayed is to betray,  
To cripple others into the same hard shape.

I should know. For years I roamed  
The earth seeking destruction, revenge.  
I spread the pain around like the gods  
Were paying me, and in some twisted way,  
I liked it. Sometimes the only way  
To feel strong is to hurt those who claim  
To be innocent. No one is innocent.

That's what I thought. And yet  
I always spared women and children.  
I always stopped just short of that,  
Of becoming the monster I thought I deserved  
To be. Maybe Athena the Wise One  
Stayed my hand. Or maybe a bone that is  
Broken can grow straight and strong again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

X.'s Northern Travels

 

After my pirate days, and after I knew Caesar,  
After Lao Ma straightened my legs, but not my soul,  
I traveled widely, far north to a land of other gods.  
As it happened I ran into Odin, king of their gods,  
Who felt it his duty to bring peace to the Norse  
Country. Up in Valhalla, he questioned the need for  
Endless conflict. Back then, I did not see the problem.

Back then, I woke every morning knowing that  
Around the next corner was someone for me to challenge,  
Conquer. I taught him not to escape the struggle, but  
To embrace it. My lust for life inspired lust in him.  
He made me a Valkyrie. I excelled in that role,  
But came into conflict with Grinhilda, Odin's ex-lover.  
Where Grinhilda counseled a tactical withdrawal,

I wanted an all-out offensive, an attack worthy of those  
Male warriors below and we female warriors above.  
We brought more men to Valhalla on that day, even than  
Odin might have expected. He made me his number one  
Valkyrie, his lover, his partner at the feast after that little  
Battle. I told her that greed, like sex and the will to power,  
Was a fundamental of survival. I told him he could live

Without love, as I had for so long. I did not lie. Love is not  
The fundamental that the poets tell us it is. Anyone can  
Manage self-denial if they have no choice. Back in those  
Days, self-denial was a virtue, like blood innocence.  
Back then, I thought it was a game, making a man fall  
So far in love with me he would forsake everything,  
Everyone, cut out his own heart and offer it to me.

And this one was the best. I had the body and the heart  
Of mortal men, and one god of war, but this one, this  
Odin was the chief of his pantheon and knew the secret  
Of the Rheingold that would have made me invincible.  
After him, the Rhein maidens were nothing. Whoever set  
A trio of bubbleheads in charge of protecting the source  
Of ultimate power wasn't really thinking too clearly. 

 

(Stanza Break)

With one ring to rule them all, the world would be mine,  
And mortals and immortals would tremble before me.  
But as with so very many of my plans, it collapsed into ruin  
Around me, taking a lot of other people with it, just as  
Grinhilda destroyed herself to destroy me and became  
In fact the monster I was at heart, yet one more piece  
Of collateral damage, courtesy of the Destroyer of Nations.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Rift

Xena  
Every woman knows, the way to a man's heart is through  
His dagger. Tell him how long and shiny it is, how sharp:  
Enough to cut out your heart to keep as a treasure.  
They also say that a red dress catches a man's eye,  
Especially if the neckline is low, the skirt high. Add a few  
Drinks and the mention of a soft, warm bed? He's mine.

H.'s Mother  
You know I think he is lonely, yearning for a woman  
And her touch. It's a fine friendship you two have,  
But it's high on life and death situations, low on love.  
You know what I mean. It's one thing to exercise muscles,  
But the heart has its needs too. Let him have this affair  
With his new friend. He'll be back when it's over.

Iolaus.  
Seven days of enthusiastic love-making have melted  
My heart and reforged it into something new. Never  
Have I met a woman like this one: strong, beautiful,  
But also fragile somewhere within. She says she hoped  
That she would be the only one to leave with a broken  
Heart, and I beg her not to speak of leaving at all.

Hercules  
I watch him ride off with the warrior woman to save  
Arcadia from a warlord, Petrachus, a name I never  
Heard before. I think it strange that she wants him  
For the job and not me or both of us, but I take care  
Not to show it. He's always stood in my shadow.  
It will be better for him to stand in the sun awhile.

H.'s Mother  
So you think she has sent her soldier on a suicide  
Mission, sent him to assassinate you wearing  
Her medallion so you would know it was her?  
And now of course you have to go save Iolaus  
From her clutches and walk right into her trap.  
Go. Save his life, then come back in one piece.

(Stanza Break)

 

Xena  
You need to stop saying that Hercules should  
Be here instead of you. He doesn't fight for justice.  
He fights to prove he doesn't need Zeus. He fights  
To pay back Hera for killing his family. You are  
A far better man than he will ever be, and the only  
One I want beside me in war, and after, in my bed.

Petrachus  
You say you lost your best friend to her. I lost  
My son. She has taken so much from this land,  
Wheat and cattle and the lives of the farmers  
Who tried to stand against her. She'll do anything  
To get what she wants, and she wants everything.  
You cannot walk away from us, from your friend.

Iolaus  
She convinced me that he attacked her, killed  
Her soldier, that he is a madman now. I cannot  
Believe he could change so much. In my rage,  
I attacked him, but he refused to fight offensively,  
So I refused to kill him. Loyalty overcame lust.  
Together we overcame her army, but she escaped.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Code and the Gauntlet

X.  
The distinction between warriors and barbarians is crucial.  
If men take up arms against us, we cut them down, but never  
Will we kill women or children. We give them the chance  
To give in without fighting and dying, but if they refuse our offer,  
We annihilate them. My men complain that the warning gives  
The enemy time to fortify, but it doesn't change the outcome.  
The village was a rout, a beautiful day of fighting. These next few  
Days I will turn the entire Parthian peninsula into river of blood.  
My soldiers want easy victories, but such battles make soldiers  
Weak. They get what they want, food, silver, but I don't want  
Soldiers to follow me out of greed. No. I demand loyalty.

S.  
I have been on the edge of a battle before, and any battle can be  
A bloodbath. But this, this night raid against the western villages,  
The screams of the dying, not just men but women, children,  
Carnage of such a degree, arrows flying, the soldiers laughing,  
Laughing if you can believe it. My gullet rises as I stand witness  
To a level of inhuman butchery I could not imagine. What they  
Do not slice or pierce, they burn, leaving nothing, nothing,  
Not even the weeping of women. Only silence. She returns  
From scouting the northern villages to see the ashes, the bodies.  
Her anger at Darphus's disloyalty knows no limits. But then  
Their raised voices wake the lone survivor, a baby. She will not  
Let them kill it, but how much longer will her word hold them back?

D.  
It's always a pleasure to see a woman's clothes being taken off,  
But there is pleasure enough seeing this one divested of just  
Her armor, prepared to leave the army the only way a warrior can:  
Through a gauntlet of her own men dealing out pain to the beat  
Of the war drum. The men hit her and take clubs to her. She fights  
Back but she is unarmed and they have cudgels. They beat her  
Down to the ground, and although no one has ever survived,  
Bloody, she rises, half-dead. I tell them to finish the job, kill her,  
But the men say she fought by the rules and they will not cross  
That line, and I think I have finally seen that they too have a code  
Of sorts. I let her go into exile, spit at me, stumble away in the night.

 

H.  
Exiled from her army, she still fights with the same fire, but I am  
The son of Zeus. I let her go. We must even the odds, take out as many  
Of Darphus's soldiers as we can, scatter their horses, and be gone  
Before they realize we were there. In Parthos, we evacuate all  
The noncombatants, cook up some surprises, prepare for Darphus  
And his signature night raid. I stand in torchlight, bait to draw them  
Into the arch with the falling rocks, into the spiked pit, under the wooden  
Beams that collapse on a screaming half dozen. It is no use. I am quickly  
Overwhelmed by shear numbers and I am feeling my half-mortal side,  
When I hear her war cry and she swings in on a rope to scatter them.  
The bodies fly. She has turned the tide. The men run. Only Darphus  
Is brave enough to stay and face her. She dispatches him. She invites  
Herself to join my journey. I say yes. Everyone needs help sometimes.

 

 

At Night by the Campfire, X. Considers H.

 

What is it about this man that makes me feel uneasy  
About myself, as if I no longer fit into my own skin  
Or armor? I listen to his sleeping breath and notice  
The constellation of the warrior overhead. His father,  
Zeus, is ruler of the skies. What must that be like?  
Hercules is half god, but rather than marauding, taking  
The world by storm as I would, he wanders the world  
Doing good, helping mortals in peril rather than putting  
Them in it. His strength is prodigious, his heart large.

Almost he reminds me of a young man from my home,  
Amphipolis, a lad I loved, briefly, before my life turned  
In that other direction. Maybe it's his eyes, the way  
They seem to see me, and inside me, to my fledgling  
Heart trying to unmire itself from the terrible things  
I have done, the battlefields of my life, all the carrion.  
To be seen like that is a gift. If someone else can see  
You as you might become, then perhaps you can see it,  
Make it happen. He says I should start where I am,

Do one good thing for no other reason than that it is  
Good. Then do the next. So I saved a baby, to be true  
To my warrior's code, make up in some tiny way  
For the devastation Darphus committed against that  
Village, against my orders. Then I helped Hercules  
Defeat Darphus, because no one that evil can be alive  
If the world is to be safe. Now, Ares, my old lover,  
Is back and wants retribution against me and is using  
The resurrected Darphus to do it. I will finish this,

Somehow, with the aid of Hercules. I came so close  
So many times to becoming Darphus. I came close  
To the edge of that cliff, but always stepped away in time.  
Now I must work my way backward, toward my old,  
Better self, back to the woman determined to save  
Her homeland, who fought for good, loved without  
Manipulation. I must become more like Hercules.  
The land is in turmoil from warlords and kings and calls  
Out for a hero. In the night, I can imagine that might be me.

 

Having Been Burned

I.  
Hercules, you and your cousin walked through the ashes  
Of the village her army torched. You know the smell  
Of burnt flesh, the heft of bodies falling into a mass grave  
You dug yourself. Now you are falling for her wiles.  
You are falling into the same trap that I fell into, and I will  
Burn in Hades before I stand around and watch you do it.  
How can you forget that she tried to get us to kill each other?  
You say she has changed. Is that what you tell yourself  
When she and you are rolling around in bed together?

H.  
I do not roll around in bed with her. Hear me out.  
You only heard half the story. Salmoneus didn't tell you  
About the baby she saved, the gauntlet she survived.  
No, I could not pity her. She does not accept pity. She is  
A warrior in the truest sense of the word, as you are.  
We will need your help to defeat Darphus once again.  
And you forget that fire was one of the gifts that  
Prometheus gave us. Fire also cleanses the wound, roasts  
The quail, and forges the sword that we use to fight evil.

S.  
Having seen that village massacred and burned to the ground,  
I have nightmares about combat, fire, being trapped under  
The rubble of a burning house. So there in the small dark space  
After the avalanche covered us, even with Hercules holding up  
All the boulders on his back, and the other two digging out,  
I could only rock and tremble. I nearly got Hercules killed  
In my fear of leaving that place, but he would not leave me there.  
Then in the battle at the diamond mine, my fear for my own  
Worthless skin overcame my good sense, and I ran for it.

X.  
In every other battle before this, I only ever felt cold rage, but  
This time, it was heat. Is this the thrill of fighting evil? I decided  
To tell you how I feel about you in case I die in the next fight.  
That also is a hot, roiling desire. You feel it too. Your kisses melt  
The rage, as your warm hands, sliding over my skin, kindle a flame  
That burns inside me as you do. Forest fires start this way, with  
A sudden bolt of lightning hitting dry tinder, even on the coldest  
Day in winter. The waves of heat carry us both out of ourselves  
To the heavens. It subsides. We realize we did not light the sticks.

I.  
Returning from my scouting, too soon, I think, I catch them  
In a moment of such mutual tenderness, I remember in a flash  
Every look and every touch of that week I spent in her bed,  
And I know for a fact this is different. I have only ever seen him  
Give that look to his late wife. And she, she is transformed,  
Soft, vulnerable in a way I would not have thought possible.  
He is my friend, wiser than me, and has been alone a long time.  
I accept what I see. They see me and know, sated, embarrassed,  
That I know. I let him have this, simply give them my report.

S.  
Now that even my cowardly attempt to save my life has gone  
Disastrously wrong, I find myself at the table of Darphus,  
Who insists on feeding me up like a sacrificial calf, so that  
He can feed me to Graegus, Ares' pet dog-lizard, practically  
The size of a cart already. Dragged into the temple, tossed  
Downstairs, chained, I face it: something even worse than my  
Greatest fears. They save me, fight the beasts, toss Darphus  
Into its mouth, so it explodes. They have fought fire with fire.  
I escape the temple, grab a pot and help Iolaus fight mere men.

X.  
Leaving him behind is the hardest thing I have ever done,  
But I need to get on with making up for my past. Ten years,  
I devastated villages and farms, ran rampage over the countryside:  
Killed thousands of men, without counting the cost. Now I do.  
As once my every gesture was grasping and destructive, so now,  
I must at every turn build up, give, protect. He has shown me  
The way, but it is not his to follow. I must travel it alone. No one  
But I can pay for my own evil. I must stand alone, fight alone,  
Face the tidal wave of my long guilt, finally, alone.

 

The Slavers Reach Potidaea

 

When you wake on the day that changes  
Your life forever, you have no idea, you  
Think it’s just another blue, green and  
Ordinary day, perhaps a good day  
For bringing in sheaves or beating out  
The laundry against rocks by the river.

On the day that changes your life for  
Good, you think your life will never change  
From the round of hard work, festival,  
Hard work, but that is just because you don’t  
Know how to recognize a day like  
The one that changes your life forever.

Change rarely happens here. When you wake  
You know what’s coming: the same old thing.  
Then one day, that change. Everything  
Changes. Slavers, sweaty and leering,  
Sweep through the village like a reaping  
Leaving the men bleeding, taking just

Young women, the strong or beautiful,  
Those who can do the kinds of work that  
Such men deem the work of womenfolk.  
Terror. Screaming. Chaos and that acrid  
Sweat of fear, of the knowledge of what  
May be—is—coming. The heart beats too

Fast. Even when the unexpectable  
Happens: a war cry, sudden salvation—  
Your heart still gropes in darkness. And  
The next day, when you wake, after that  
Night when you relived those horrors, oh,  
After that day that has changed your life

Forever, you too are changed, like dough  
That, when introduced to extreme heat,  
Becomes bread, nourishment, food for your  
Journey. Sometimes fire destroys, even  
Annihilates. But, sometimes, it anneals,  
Leaving you stronger even than you were before.


End file.
